


an unfortunate mess

by freakedelic



Category: Teen Titans (Animated Series)
Genre: A Whole Lot of Robin Suffering (TM), Anal Sex, Humiliation, M/M, Omorashi, Wetting, piss in ass, uhhhh idk how to tag this hmmm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 04:35:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22490161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakedelic/pseuds/freakedelic
Summary: This is ridiculous, Slade wouldn’t leave him here and let him—Let him wet himself—But that’s exactly what he’s done.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 203





	an unfortunate mess

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yamada_CZ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yamada_CZ/gifts).



> heyyyyy yamada sorry this is so late!! i hope u like it :3

The first time it happens, Robin is chained to the headboard of Slade’s bed, legs crisscrossed in front of him. The white wall of the hotel room dominates half-lidded eyes, Robin shifting as best he can to get into a more comfortable position. It doesn’t work; it never does. Slade’s chained him up so tight he can’t reach the key and can’t wiggle out of it like he did the times before. The bruises are forming, he’s sure, as prominent as the purpling fingers around his neck from the last time he spoke out of turn. That’s not what’s bothering him.

It’s the growing pressure in his bladder that worries him. He hadn’t thought before downing the bottle of water that Slade gave him all in one go. Robin winces to think of how he’d _thanked_ Slade for it as the man demanded, but thirst was one hell of a drug. Robin yanks desperately on the chains again, as hard as he can, but all they do is rattle against the headboard and dig into his wrists even harder. Slade has to come back soon. His face burns thinking of what will happen if the man doesn’t.

Robin does his best to think of something else – _anything_ else, anything but the pressure that digs into his gut. The bland wallpaper stares back at him, and he’s sure his face is turning red. This can’t be happening, it _cannot_ be happening. This is ridiculous, Slade wouldn’t leave him here and let him—

Let him _wet_ himself—

But that’s exactly what he’s done. Robin shifts, trying to shut his eyes and relax, but that only serves a worse purpose. He _aches_ , more than he knew he could, rocking slightly with the tension of keeping it all . . . _in_. With stopping his inevitable humiliation at Slade’s hands—at the hands of nature itself.

Robin doesn’t know how long he sits there, face red and body aching and the pressure building, until he simply . . . can’t. It’s like a flip is switched. Robin is burying his face in his hands, trying not to look—but he can _feel_ the warmth starting in his crotch and dribbling down his thighs, pooling underneath him. A sigh slips out through his lips, one of utter and complete relief. It doesn’t ache anymore, even if he can feel the wetness through the jeans that Slade had given him. Robin keeps his hands fixed over his eyes. He can’t look. He just— _wet the bed_ , and Slade—

Slade is going to come back, and he is going to _see it_. Any brief relief that it’s over is eclipsed by horror sinking in his guts. Robin tries to move out of the wet spot, but the chain barely lets him twitch. He swears he can smell it and tries to move away, anything to make the dampness between his legs disappear. Nothing helps. The worst part is the _waiting_ , sitting there as piss dries between his thighs until he hears the door open.

Robin hopes, ridiculously, that he won’t notice. This is all _Slade’s_ fault, because he tied Robin to the bed, but it doesn’t stop the redness from creeping up his cheeks as he stares _anywhere_ but at Slade. Slade doesn’t see it, at first, too busy dumping a duffel full of weapons on the couch and throwing a stained suit jacked over the side of it, loosening his tie. It must’ve been a plainclothes mission, even though Robin can see the suit peeking out beneath all the ostentatious fashion.

Then Slade approaches Robin. His head cocks. Robin thinks he might be able to smell it, even as Slade’s eye narrows in disgust. A hand grabs his chin, forcing him to look upwards, no matter how much Robin tries to jerk his head away.

“Made a mess, did we?” Robin didn’t think his face could get any hotter, but it increases a few solid degrees.

“You left me here,” Robin accuses.

“And you _wet yourself_ , like a _child_.” Robin stares defiantly at Slade, trying to ignore the wetness drying against his thighs, under his body. “How old are you again, boy? _Fourteen_? _Fifteen_? That seems a bit old to be making a mess like this.”

“I couldn’t help it!” Robin insists, trying to defend himself. “You didn’t—I couldn’t _move_ , and . . . I just . . .” Couldn’t hold it in.

“Of course you couldn’t,” Slade murmurs, and the condescension drips off of every syllable. He doesn’t _do_ anything about it, because of _course_ he doesn’t, simply staring. Robin doesn’t wait for him to say something, moving in the mostly-dried . . . fluid . . . as best he can, barely changing his position but making it easier for Slade to get to his wrists.

“Untie me,” he says, voice tight. “Please,” he adds seconds afterwards, remembering how Slade always prefers it when he _begs_. The humiliation is almost too much to bear, Robin doesn’t know if he could take anymore.

With a hum, the key clicks in the latch. Robin sighs with relief, trying not to look at Slade as he slips off the bed—

A hand presses hard on his chest, stopping him in his tracks. Robin looks up.

“I don’t think so,” Slade murmurs. With a small push, Robin is falling back against the bedsheets, eyes wide. He tries to scramble away but Slade’s heavy hands are already clamped like vices around his hips. “It’s been a long day,” Slade says softly—but oh, so dangerously. Robin feels his gut sinking. “And since you’ve already made _such_ a mess . . .”

Robin doesn’t even know what he’s shaking his head _to_ , but he knows that he doesn’t want it to happen. From this angle, Slade can see the spot on his wet pants more clearly than Robin can, and he can _feel_ the one eye taking him all in. It makes all his pride _ache_. His thighs and ass shiver, damp in the cool air as Slade yanks down his underwear and pants. They pool around his ankles before sloughing off onto the floor. Robin stares up at the ceiling, but he can’t block out the sound of Slade’s zipper.

Slade wouldn’t—he can’t be—but of _course_ he is. Robin tries to shut his thighs as tight as they can go, but as with the urine, it doesn’t _work_. Slade’s fingers bruise his thighs as they push him open, inserting himself in between them. A few fingers slip inside and all the lubricant that they have is his own _piss_.

“Are you going to make another mess?” Slade murmurs. It’s a mocking tone, as if he’s talking to a very young child.

“Shut u—” Robin’s retort is cut off as Slade jams a third finger in, jerking it against his prostate with a vicious motion. Robin jerks, and he loathes himself for how much he reacts to Slade. Like a puppet on a string. Slade smirks down at him, all smugness.

Robin’s fingers fist in the sheets, twitching as Slade’s fingers pry him wider and wider. He knows what’s next. Slade’s cock slips out of his pants. Robin prefers not to look at it, instead staring pointedly at the ceiling as it slips into him. It feels a little . . . different, somehow, not as stiff inside him.

Slade pulls him down by the hips and Robin stares even more pointedly at the popcorn ceiling. White. He can almost see patterns swirling on it—

The fact that Slade wasn’t moving in him should’ve been a warning sign. Robin feels it first, warm as it spills inside him. It feels like Slade’s just come, but Robin knows that can’t be, and knows that no person could come that _much_. It trickles inside him, going too long, and—

That’s _piss_. Slade’s _pissing_ inside him. Robin tries to jerk away only to run against the vice grip on his hips, Slade continuing to pour it inside of him. Robin swears he can feel himself swelling with it, feel some of it dribbling under him and trickling down his thighs like the time he’d done it all _himself_. It reaches parts of him he doesn’t know he had and every time he squirms it dribbles out of him. Robin clenches down, hard, so it stops getting out, and Slade makes a low, pleased noise. Robin realizes he’s clenching down on his cock.

Finally, the stream ends. Robin shivers there, but it’s only a few seconds before Slade starts to move. He pulls the rim open, sending piss dripping down to the floor, before slamming in again. Robin can _feel_ the fluid moving inside him, filling him up in the worst way, aching in his gut. Slade’s cock makes a sick, wet noise as he thrusts. Robin’s face burns, staring anywhere but at Slade, trying to cut off sensation in his lower body. Every movement sends the piss inside him seeping further in, spurting down his thighs when Slade pulls back to fuck into him again.

A puddle forms under his ass, too warm for comfort. Robin slides on it, the only thing that he can hold onto even a little the sheets clenched between his fists.

“It’s all coming out of _you_ , boy.” Slade clicks his tongue. “You just can’t help it, can you? Can’t hold it in?” Robin’s face is bright red. This is Slade’s fault, all of it, but Slade is quite literally getting off on blaming him. Piss isn’t even very good lube, because it hurts but it doesn’t _bleed_ , not like it could. Not like it has in the past. The sloppy noises fill his ears as he tries to think of anything else. Robin feels nauseous, and he tries not to gag. He doesn’t want to think about what Slade would do if he threw up. He thanks _god_ when he feels Slade start to increase the pace to almost frenzied levels, seconds before he buries himself inside and _comes_.

Robin can barely feel it, he’s already so full. Slade stays buried in him for too long, and Robin’s almost afraid he’s going to piss again, but sure enough—he slips out. A gush of liquid drips out of Robin, making him squirm on the bed. Slade holds him there, watching as come dribbles out of him, rim still fluttering around something that’s no longer there. He doesn’t move.

Robin prays that Slade won’t get hard _again_. But finally, he steps away, stepping towards the bathroom. “You’re cleaning that _all_ up,” he says smugly. Robin pushes himself on his hands but he doesn’t _think_ about it long enough. Another gush makes the wet spot under him larger, Robin reddening as he feels it spill out of him. He stares at the floor, wondering how much more will leave him when he stands up.

It seems almost reasonable, to think about practical things now—like how he’s going to have to change the sheets, change his clothes, scrub the carpet.

If he keeps his mind on that, he can almost forget the flush of humiliation that still darkens his cheeks.


End file.
